


He Could Build a City

by pann_cake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:26:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pann_cake/pseuds/pann_cake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Dean Winchester is deep undercover in a cage fighting ring, following the trail of missing boys. In the midst of violence and intrigue, Dean discovers something he never expected. His high school sweetheart, Castiel--missing for a decade and presumed dead--is now an unbeatable and highly protected fighter. Dean can't get to Cas--or save the other missing boys--without fighting his way to the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the DC_Dystopia reverse bang, based [art by tiggeratl1](http://tigs-playground.livejournal.com/7584.html). A HUGE thank-you goes out to my two betas, who are the only reason this fic even exists. For more notes, please see the [masterpost at lj](http://shireberries.livejournal.com/69779.html).

He could build a city. He has a certain capacity. There's a niche in his chest 

where a heart would fit perfectly 

and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place- 

well then, game over.

~Richard Siken, Road Music

\--

PART ONE

Sometimes Dean has to really stop and think about what he’s doing here, what led him to being facedown spitting up blood in a caged arena. The guy he’s fighting is bigger than he is, and he swings a hell of a left hook. But Dean is quicker, and he knows how to find an enemy’s weakness and exploit it. It comes from years of training—first with his dad, then with the LAPD. Dean’s good at his job and he knows it.

The brute he’s fighting doesn’t know it, though. No one here does. He’s as deep undercover as he’s ever been, and the thrill of anonymity should not be something he revels in. He’s not Detective Winchester here, he’s a kid named Jensen from Texas who’s down on his luck and needs the money that cage fighting brings home. Dean’s not just good at lying, he _lives_ the lie. When he’s here, there is no Dean Winchester. It’s so easy to get lost in his other persona, his alter-ego who fights and smokes and steals money from lesser fighters.

All it takes to snap him back into focus is the gaze of intense blue eyes. Cas is watching him from the other side of the cage, silent and still amid the mayhem of betting men screaming at Dean and his opponent. Dean looks up from where he’s sprawled and bloody on his stomach and sees Cas clutching the cage bars with his hands. Dean locks eyes with him. Cas’s face is set in a grim mask, everything emotionless as stone—except for his eyes.

_Get up_ , those eyes say. _Get up and win_.

So Dean does. He pushes himself up, springing to his feet and wiping his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. The giant he’s fighting grins at him and raises his ham-sized fists. Dean looks him over as he bounces on the balls of his feet, raising his taped hands like a boxer. This guy— _Neil_ , Dean thinks—is a meathead. All power and no finesse. He’s slow and clumsy, three hundred pounds of fat and muscle that Dean can’t penetrate with his fists. He has to try something else if he wants to take the big man down.

“Did anyone ever tell you you hit like a girl?” Dean taunts, and Neil swings at him. Dean easily dodges this time, ducking and bouncing to the left.

“Say that again, pretty boy, and I’ll knock your teeth outta your head.”

Dean flashes him a grin. “I bet your mama hits better than you.”

Neil’s eyes narrow into slits and he growls, baring his teeth like a rabid dog. “No one talks about my mama that way.”

“I just did, big guy,” Dean drawls. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Neil lunges at him. Dean slams his knee up into the man’s abdomen before bringing his elbow down onto his ear. Neil stumbles to one knee, and Dean sweeps his ankle under his opponent’s leg to topple him. The large man half-rises, stunned, but by that time Dean has come around behind him. Dean locks his arms around Neil’s neck in a sleeper hold, his forearm cutting off the oxygen to Neil’s windpipe. Neil struggles, fingers scrabbling at Dean’s arm while he goes red in the face. Dean tightens his grip, doesn’t let up until Neil flops to the floor, unconscious.

The part of the crowd who bet on the bigger man starts booing, but Dean just smirks and throws his hands up in victory. He waits while Crowley, the self-proclaimed Master of Ceremonies, unlocks the cage to let them out. Crowley is flanked by serious-faced bodyguards, who escort Dean away from the screaming crowd. They lead him upstairs to the private lounge where he recuperates from the fight and collects his winnings. 

“Well done, Jensen,” Balthazar says with a grin, counting out the money. “You’re starting to be a good wager, more people are betting on you. Keep it up and you’ll be a rich man.”

“Yeah, then I won’t have to do this anymore,” Dean winks. Next to him Crowley chuckles and pours them all glasses of whiskey.

“You won’t walk away that easily,” Crowley insists. “You’re a rising star, Jensen! I haven’t seen someone fight through the ranks like this since, well, since Jimmy.”

Dean swallows his mouthful of whiskey and hides his spark of interest. He’s been trying to find information on Cas—who goes by Jimmy now—since he first got here, but so far everyone has been tight-lipped. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the amount of money he just won, but Crowley has loosened up just enough that Dean thinks he can get at least _something_ out of him.

“I heard Jimmy hasn’t been beat,” Dean says, keeping his voice casual. “How long has he been doing this?”

Crowley snickers and shakes his head. “Jimmy Novak has been here for _years_ ,” he divulges, taking another sip of his drink. “He’s one of the lifers, and our longest lasting trainee.”

“Lifers? What do you mean?” Dean has an inkling of what Crowley is talking about. It’s the reason he’s undercover in the first place. A string of disappearances of young men all led to this fighting ring—where Lieutenant Singer believes the boys were taken to be trained in cage fighting. Dean hasn’t come across any of the boys yet, and he’s been working on it for months. Then again, he’s only recently gotten himself into this inner circle—where all the secrets are.

Balthazar clears his throat. “That’s not for us to discuss,” he says. “Most of the men you see here found us through word-of-mouth. They’re looking for a little excitement and, if they’re lucky, a lot of money.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dean smirks, raising his glass and downing the rest of his drink. 

“Oh, come now, Balthazar,” Crowley chides. “Jensen here is on his way up. He should start learning these things if he plans on staying with our organization. You do plan on sticking around, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Dean insists. “You know I lost everything betting on the races, I haven’t had this much going for me since, well, I don’t remember when.”

“That’s our boy.” Crowley winks at him and Balthazar huffs from across the table.

“We shouldn’t divulge too much, Crowley, without Zachariah’s approval.” Balthazar’s tone is all business, but the look he gives Dean is one of concern. Out of everyone he’s met here, Balthazar is the only one who seems to genuinely care about Dean’s safety. Dean finds himself liking the bookie in spite of himself and his mission.

“And Zachariah told _me_ that he’s eyeing Jensen as a trainer for the new recruits,” Crowley says, turning from Balthazar back to Dean. “This part of the operation is very hush-hush, you understand.”

Dean nods. “Of course.”

Balthazar still looks apprehensive, but Crowley plows ahead as he refills their glasses. “When we get in new recruits, they’re young enough to train as we wish, to mold them into this life. They’re not like the poor pansies you beat up for us, who come here for a bit of fun. They’re entirely separate from that.”

“So regular members don’t get to fight these recruits?” Dean asks, taking another sip of whiskey. It burns down his throat. He reminds himself not to have too much. He has to stay sharp, especially here with these people where anything could happen.

“They fight each other in an invitation-only tournament,” Crowley explains. “They don’t get paid for their wins, like you do. It’s the highest grossing event we hold all year. For the right price, our clients get to do more than just watch their champions fight, if you know what I mean.”

“So these recruits aren’t just fighters,” Dean asks slowly, “they’re prostitutes? Where do you get them from?”

“That’s not your concern, Jensen,” Balthazar puts in. “They’re taken care of, especially if they win. Hence why Jimmy is treated like a prince.”

“He never loses,” Crowley says with a wolfish grin.

Dean feels his stomach turn. He sets his glass down on the table with a bit more force than necessary. He begins peeling off the white tape around his knuckles, to hide the fact that his hands are shaking.

“Ah, here comes another little prince,” Crowley drawls as a slim, blonde man enters with another bottle. “Come here, Brady.”

With a sly smile, Brady drops into Crowley’s lap, sitting sideways and crossing his legs on the couch. He’s dressed in a tailored suit, his dress shirt the color of dried blood. Crowley wraps the boy’s tie around his hand and pulls him close.

“Brady did well in the ring for a while,” Crowley says huskily, “then I discovered his other talents and wanted him all to myself. I don’t want my prize all bloodied-up, now do I?”

“No, Mr. Crowley,” Brady breathes. Crowley leans forward to nip at the boy’s bottom lip.

Dean gets up from the couch to leave them to it, but Balthazar stops him at the door.

“Your winnings,” he says, handing Dean an envelope. “I’ll walk you out to your car.”

“Yeah, all right,” Dean agrees, following Balthazar out. From the staircase Dean can hear the ruckus of another cage fight, but they turn down a hallway leading away from the action and out a back door. Balthazar doesn’t speak again until he’s outside.

“Jensen, if you don’t want to go any deeper into this, now’s the time to back away.”

It had rained earlier in the night, the puddles illuminated by the streetlamps overhead. The warehouse is in a rundown section of the city, a breeding ground for drug dealers and prostitutes; Crowley and his boys fit right in.

“Where do the boys come from?” Dean asks quietly, though he already knows the answer. He has suspected it for a long time, but never had any proof. Crowley practically admitted it tonight, but Dean knows it’s not enough and would never hold up in court. He needs something concrete—he needs to see these recruits himself.

“You don’t want to ask that question, Jensen,” Balthazar says. “People who ask questions end up at the bottom of the ocean.”

“I don’t intend on going swimming any time soon.” Dean’s voice is light, cheeky, but Balthazar stops him with a hand on his arm.

“I’ve watched you fight your way up in this ring,” Balthazar tells him. “You hardly care about the money, and you don’t seem like the type to take this on as your life, whether or not Zachariah wants you to. What’s your motivation?”

Dean looks away to the cloud-strewn night sky. Balthazar is getting dangerously close to figuring him out. Dean has to tread carefully. He’s come too far to lose the case now.

But he has to tell Balthazar _something_ , and it has to be convincing. Dean can’t think of a lie that would work better than the truth. Well, part of the truth.

“What do you know about Jimmy Novak?”

Balthazar frowns. “Why do you want to know about Jimmy?”

“I think he’s someone that I used to know,” Dean sighs. “We grew up together, only his name was different then.”

Balthazar scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t make me regret telling you this,” he warns. “Jimmy was a recruit, about ten years ago now. He took to the life like a duck to water. I’ve never seen anyone fight like him.”

“I need to talk to him, Balthazar.”

Balthazar shakes his head. “He’s too well protected for someone like you to just go chat him up. And he doesn’t sell himself out anymore, so you can’t buy your way to him.”

Dean sucks in a breath at that and looks away. A yellow moon peeks out from behind the dark clouds and Dean watches it for a moment, letting the truth of Balthazar’s words sink in.

Castiel Milton was taken from him. He was just a boy then, fresh out of high school and wanting to see the world. He was innocent and perfect—he was Dean’s life, back then. Dean left everything for him, packed up and hit the road before college, the two of them off to see as much of the country as they could. It all changed when Cas disappeared. Dean never quite got over it. He dropped out of college before his classes even began, enrolling in the police academy instead. If he couldn’t bring Cas back to him, at least he might be able to stop the same fate from happening to more innocent people.

He never thought he would see Cas again. The last place he expected him to be was in the heart of a cage fighting ring. Dean recognized him in an instant, but couldn’t get to him. He’s there to find the missing boys, these recruits who were taken off the streets and forced to fight and give themselves over to strangers with fat wallets. Like Cas. Castiel makes this whole case personal now, and Dean won’t stop until he gets Cas out.

“There might be another way, Jensen,” Balthazar says slowly, and Dean turns back around to face him. “The tournament is coming up. Jimmy is always the last fighter. No one ever beats him. If you beat the rest, if you get to him, you’ll be the new favorite. You’ll be untouchable.”

“I thought Crowley said it was invitation-only,” Dean says. “Regular members don’t get to fight in the tournament.”

“Zachariah listens to me and Crowley,” Balthazar tells him. “He likes you. We can push your case, say you want to get a taste of what the recruits can do before you agree to train the new ones.”

“How many of these guys are there?”

“Ten, including Jimmy. And they’ve all been doing it for years.”

“And I imagine Zachariah has weeded out the worst fighters by now?”

Balthazar nods. “These are the ten best fighters we have. They live for this.”

Dean scrubs a hand down his face and exhales through his nose. “Am I asking to get my ass handed to me, here?”

“You’ve fought your way up for less.”

Dean nods, knowing that his decision has already been made. “Talk to Zachariah,” he says with grim determination. “Get me into that tournament.”


	2. Part Two

PART TWO

Dean drives home mostly in a stupor. He cranks the window down and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke out into the night. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s gone way off course, that he’s being dragged deeper and deeper into this fucked up case, with no guarantee of answers. Bobby would ask him what’s more important, finding the kids or rescuing an old flame who may not even be the same person Dean remembers. 

Dean remembers a lot about Cas. It was impossible to forget him and the spark of life he had, the desire to know everything he could. He was Dean’s first serious relationship, and though he’d only been eighteen Dean had felt something big there. This was a guy he could spend the rest of his life with and never get bored.

When Cas disappeared, Dean refused to give up on him for the longest time. When the Seattle police dropped the case as another unsolved missing person, Dean scoured the city for him. He never found a thing. Eventually he returned home, tired and heartbroken, to tell Cas’s family what had happened. He hadn’t let himself break down until that night, when he was alone with his brother Sam. The tears came and wouldn’t stop for hours; he cried himself raw on his little brother’s shirt.

Sam understood, despite only being fourteen. Dean had just lost the one person he felt a connection to outside of their broken little family, and worse Dean couldn’t stop blaming himself. Which is why, when Dean comes home bruised and bloody from his latest fight, Sam doesn’t say anything. He just sits Dean on the couch and gets two cans of beer and the first-aid kit.

“I’m getting close, Sammy,” Dean says. His voice is quiet in their empty apartment, keeping his hope a whisper. “I can get him out of there.”

Sam sighs, dabbing at Dean’s face with antibiotic cream. “At what cost, Dean?”

“These are just scrapes, Sam,” Dean insists. “They’ll heal.”

Sam pauses in his work to look at Dean. “Do you think he’s okay? After all that time there, what he went through… do you think he’s the same Cas we knew?”

Dean darts his eyes away and fishes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I don’t know. But I need to get him out.”

“Okay.” Sam drops the subject, watching as Dean blows smoke up at the ceiling fan where it’s whirring slowly above them. “When did you start smoking?”

Dean shrugs. “A while back. It helps me fit in.”

“Like the tattoos?” Sam’s eyes flick to Dean’s shoulder and the black swirls peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. The ink is vaguely tribal with no meaning at all to Dean. He got it when he was assigned to go undercover, choosing the design simply _because_ it had no meaning. No one would look at the tattoo and attribute anything to Dean; not his past, not his personality, not his relationships. It’s meaningless ink. Dean doesn’t even notice it most days.

On the other arm though, on the inside of his bicep, is a real tattoo. He got it the day he was accepted into the police academy. It’s a reminder and a promise. Written in small, black print is the date that Cas went missing. No one has asked him about it yet, but he has a story all made up about it being the date of his father’s death. On the worst nights Dean runs his thumb over it, murmuring to someone he always believed was out there somewhere.

Now he has a chance to get him back, and if Dean has to smoke and fight and get more stupid ink, he’ll do it all gladly. For now though, he can’t take his brother’s frown anymore so he rubs his cigarette out on the top of his empty beer can and drops it in.

“Bobby won’t like this tournament idea, Dean,” Sam tells him. 

Dean leans back on the couch and scratches at the bandages Sam put on his split knuckles. “He doesn’t need to know. The old man gave me clearance to do whatever I felt was necessary while undercover. This is as necessary as it gets.”

“Listen, Dean.” Sam hesitates for a moment, looking at his brother in concern before continuing. “I know you have to get to Cas. I get that. Just don’t lose sight of why you’re there.”

“Cas can lead me to the missing boys,” Dean reasons. “I’d do it this way even if Cas wasn’t involved.”

“Just… try not to get yourself killed, okay? He wouldn’t want that.”

“You mean _doesn’t_ want that.” When Sam gives him a puzzled look, Dean goes on. “He’s not in the past anymore, Sam. He’s _here_ and I can help him. I know I can.”

“I’m not saying you should give up on him,” Sam continues gently, “I’m just asking you to think about this.”

“What’s to think about? This is the only way.” Dean feels his face heat up. He’s glad he has Sam to look out for him, but he needs to do this.

“You’re putting yourself in danger.” Sam keeps his voice even, but his face is full of worry. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you tend to let your emotions get the better of you.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Dean huffs.

“You’re putting all your hope in a guy you haven’t seen in ten years, Dean. You have to realize how much of a risk that is.”

“What choice do I have?” Dean demands, voice rising as he stands from the couch. “He’ll help me. I know he will.” 

“Dean…”

“Leave it alone, Sam.”

Dean storms off into his room, leaving a puzzled Sam behind on the couch. He’s completely aware that his dramatic exit proved Sam’s point about his emotions, but Dean doesn’t care about that right now. He’s not juvenile enough to slam his door; that’s never been how he and Sam are with each other, anyway. The doors are always open, an unspoken invitation to come in no matter what they’re arguing about. Dean collapses onto his bed, realizing too late that the pack of cigarettes aren’t in his pocket. He groans to himself, thinking that Sam’s going to throw them away or flush them down the toilet.

When Dean gets up the next morning, Sam has already left for work. The cigarettes are there next to the half-full pot of coffee. Dean smiles to himself.

\--

A few weeks later, Dean finds himself in more pain than he’s ever been in. He’s fighting a guy who calls himself Lucifer, which should have been the first clue that he’d be intense. Dean’s face is throbbing, one eye puffy and swollen. He knows he’ll have one hell of a black eye tomorrow. He’s pretty sure a rib is bruised—maybe cracked—every breath painful. And that doesn’t mention the blows he’s taken to the abdomen. But he just winces, grits his teeth, and tries to power through it.

The first few rounds of the tournament went fairly well. Dean was put at the bottom of the list, sure, but there weren’t as many opponents as he’d expected once he understood the system. On the first night of the tournament, Balthazar handed him a hand-drawn bracket with the breakdown of fighters. There were blank slots to be filled in depending on the winners every night. Multiple fights happen a night, the winners going on to fight each other until only two fighters are left.

Everyone was surprised when Dean made it into the semifinals. Once he beats Lucifer, the only fighter left is Cas. Dean watched Cas’s match earlier in the night against Uriel. The other man towered over Cas, but the crowd cheered when Cas _demolished_ him. Cas moved like a martial artist, graceful yet with frightening power. Dean hardly recognized him.

Lucifer’s fighting style is similar to Cas, evidence of being raised and trained together. Yet Lucifer moves erratically, completely unpredictable. He leaves Dean face down on the floor more often than not. Dean has some boxing experience, but the police force trained him for the streets. He’s been winning these fights with his speed and his dogged determination to not give up. But as he takes another solid fist to the gut, Dean fears for the first time since beginning the tournament that he might lose. All his work on this case might be for nothing.

Dean lands a good punch to Lucifer’s jaw that leaves the blonde man stumbling. Dean tries to sweep his opponent’s feet out from under him, but Lucifer recovers fast. With a complicated crisscross and jump, Lucifer is out of harm’s away again. He gives Dean a wicked grin, the blood on his teeth making him look all the more menacing.

Dean takes it for what it is—a challenge. He lunges forward, fists flying. Lucifer laughs until Dean hits him under the ribs. Dean keeps at it hard, quick one-two punches like his father taught him years ago. Lucifer brings his knee up into Dean’s stomach, pushing Dean back. Dean hardly feels the pain any more, all of it clouded by survival instinct. 

The crowd is chanting his name—Jensen, Jensen, Jensen. It takes Dean a dizzying moment to remember that isn’t really his name. He’s not Jensen, he’s _Dean_. 

It doesn’t matter what they call him. He’s a fighter, he’s an animal, and he will win this or die trying.

Dean hurtles into Lucifer, head down and shoulder pressed underneath the man’s armpit. Momentum and adrenaline power him forward as he forces Lucifer against the metal of the cage. Lucifer tries to fight him off, gnashing his teeth at him, but Dean holds fast. He curls his fist tight and aims for the kidney, knowing the pain will be blinding.

Lucifer staggers and gasps for air as Dean keeps pummeling him. When Lucifer slumps against the cage Dean drags him up again. They’re near the corner, so Dean uses it to his advantage. He spins Lucifer around, holding him by the back of his neck and a fistful of his shirt. Then he slams his face into the bar at the corner of the cage, again and again. He doesn’t stop when blood flies—a broken nose or a tooth knocked out, Dean doesn’t know. Lucifer’s skull makes a clanging noise as it collides with the steel.

When Dean lets go, Lucifer collapses in a heap onto the floor. His face is a bloody mess and he’s not moving. Dean doesn’t realize that the fight is over until Crowley comes in and grabs him. He leads Dean through the screaming crowd, both of them flanked by bodyguards to push their way through. Then they’re upstairs in the lounge. Dean is pushed down onto the couch. That’s when he finally breathes.

“That was one hell of a fight, mate,” Crowley says, clapping Dean on the shoulder. Dean winces but Crowley keeps on talking. “Can you believe it? Our boy, in the finals!”

“I’m not your boy,” Dean groans as Balthazar sits next to him on the couch. He hands Dean some ice wrapped in a towel and Dean gingerly presses it to his eye.

“Put that in a drink, Jen. You should be celebrating.”

Dean doesn’t feel like celebrating. He doesn’t feel like doing anything at all. The thrill is quickly rushing out of him, leaving him feeling hollow. He stands up unsteadily, the pain that had been numbed by adrenaline now blooming throughout his body. His chest burns with each breath and everything feels tender and raw.

“Whoa, easy there,” Balthazar says, gripping Dean’s arm and guiding him back to the couch. “You better stay a while. Do you need a doctor?”

“I don’t need a fucking doctor.” Dean’s voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears. “I just need to go home.”

“You don’t want to go back down there now,” Crowley puts in. “Almost everyone bet on Lucifer. You’ve made a few enemies tonight.”

“Just what I need,” Dean deadpans.

“I’ll get Brady to bring you some drinks, eh?”

Dean rests his head back against the couch, ignoring both Crowley’s enthusiasm and Balthazar’s quiet concern. “Just leave me alone.”

They do as he says. Dean thinks he must have fallen asleep because when he opens his eyes again the place is dark and empty. His body is stiff and sore. He thinks fleetingly that he should have taken Balthazar up on the doctor. He stands with a groan, one hand clutching his chest. He hopes his ribs are just bruised and not broken; they hurt like hell.

Someone left Dean’s jacket for him on the couch and he gingerly gets into it. He pats his pockets and finds everything still there: phone, keys, cigarettes, lighter, wallet with his fake ID. He slowly heads downstairs and out the back door, lighting a cigarette when he gets to the street. He doesn’t know how late it is, but the streets are deserted. 

Dean is thankful for the solitude. He’s almost to his car when a voice calls out from the alleyway beside him.

“Gotta light?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean stammers, digging in his pocket for the lighter. He’s thinking that the voice sounds a little familiar when he’s hit in the temple, hard.

His vision swims and he staggers back, the cigarette falling from his mouth. He’s hit again, in his bruised ribs this time, and he falls to the ground howling in pain. His eyes are squeezed shut but he flinches away when someone comes near him. He hears the scuff of sneakers against the cracked pavement, the click of a lighter, the long drag of a cigarette. Then he blinks up at the face looming above him.

“Crazy to think that a little ant like you beat so many of us, huh?” Gabriel croons, flicking cigarette ash down at Dean. He’s still sporting a black eye and a split lip from when Dean beat him in the last round. “What’s in it for you, champ? You wanna be part of the family?”

“He is not one of us,” a calm voice says, laced with venom. Raphael emerges from the shadows behind Gabriel, along with Michael. Dean groans and rolls onto his back, still clutching his ribs. 

“You can’t just jump in halfway,” Michael tells him, nudging Dean’s side with the toe of his shoe. “The rest of us _live_ for this tournament. Someone like you doesn’t get to come along and change the rules.”

Michael keeps his foot by Dean’s ribs, but the kick doesn’t come, not yet. Gabriel circles around to crouch down next to Dean’s face while Raphael nudges Dean’s head over with his boot. Dean’s cheek presses into the ground, Raphael’s foot digging hard against his temple. Dean’s breathing quickens and his eyes go wide.

Gabriel takes the cigarette out of his mouth and seems to ponder it. “You’ve caused quite the stir around here, tough guy. Now, we might be okay with Zachariah _liking_ you and yadda yadda. But you put one of our own into the hospital tonight, and that’s not something we take lightly.”

“Lucifer?” Dean croaks, and Gabriel’s face turns into a snarl.

“No one gets to fight our brothers but us,” Michael says, his foot pressing a little harder against Dean’s chest.

“You see this right here?” Gabriel asks, holding the lit end of his cigarette in front of Dean’s eyes. “This is called _payback_. And you can bet your sweet ass that it’s a bitch.”

“Gabriel,” a voice cuts in from the darkness, deep and commanding. All three men pause and turn to look. “What’s going on?”

Dean exhales sharply in relief when Raphael removes his foot from Dean’s face. Dean cranes his neck to see the newcomer.

He almost breathes out Cas’s name, but stops himself in time. “Jimmy,” he says, gazing up at him.

Gabriel snickers and waggles the cigarette. “You think he’s gonna stop us?”

“Jimmy, please.”

Castiel comes around to Raphael and eases him away with a gentle hand on his shoulder. His eyes never leave Dean, but that blue gaze is hard and cold now. 

“You don’t have the right,” he says quietly. Then he motions to Gabriel, who grins and yanks the sleeve of Dean’s jacket up. He pins Dean’s arm down with his knee. Dean struggles, kicks with his legs and thrashes, but Gabriel and Michael hold him fast.

He screams when the burning tip hits his skin, his body arching up off the ground. Michael kicks him down and the pain in his ribs is so intense that Dean chokes on air. It becomes a blur as they all start to beat him; he can’t tell who’s dealing the blows or who’s laughing. He’s left a bleeding mess on the pavement, curled in on himself and heaving rasping, painful breaths.

He watches the four of them walk away, hears Gabriel hooting at the front of the pack. Cas turns back to look at him but Dean can’t read his face. 

Once they’re gone it’s a struggle to dig his phone out of his pocket and flip it open. He presses the first speed dial button and waits through three rings before the other line picks up.

“Sammy,” he chokes out, feeling tears sting behind his eyes.

Dean hears his brother start to panic, to ask what happened and where he is. Dean can’t answer, can’t manage anything but Sammy’s name. Some time later Sam is there, pulling Dean up as gently as he can and settling him into the back seat. Once the car rumbles underneath him and they’re moving away from there, Dean tries to focus on what Sam is saying.

“We have to get you to a hospital.” Sam’s voice is thick with worry. Dean feels a rush of guilt.

“No. No hospitals.”

“Dean, you could have been killed!”

“No, Sam. They’ll know. They’ll find me and they’ll know.” He can’t articulate the fear that courses through him at the thought of these people finding out he’s a cop. Finding who he is and where he lives and what’s important to him. 

He hears Sam sigh in the front seat. “Okay, Dean. But I’m calling Ruby.”

Dean groans and tightens his arms around his chest.


	3. Part Three

PART THREE

“He’ll be all right once the pain meds kick in,” Ruby announces, rolling up the leftover bandages and putting them back in her nursing bag. “And you should get those ribs x-rayed.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” Dean says through gritted teeth. He never forgave her for getting Sam mixed up in drugs. She was secretly an addict the entire time they dated—she’s sober now, Sam insists—and after a few brushes with the police Sam broke up with her and moved back in with Dean.

Ruby smirks at him. “That wise-ass mouth can never be cured, though. Shame, because the rest of you is pretty nice looking when it’s not beat to a pulp.”

“Are you done?” Sam asks wearily.

Ruby turns to him and hands him a pill bottle. “Yeah, make sure he doesn’t take these too often.”

“You probably stole them, junkie whore.”

“Dean,” Sam says sternly. “Ruby just saved your ass.”

“A little gratitude would be appreciated,” she snips. “And for your information, I’m clean.”

She’s gone before Dean can say anything. Sam perches on the coffee table in front of where Dean’s sprawled on the couch.

“You could have been a little nicer, Dean.”

“That bitch almost ruined your life,” Dean says with all the hate he can muster.

“That’s why I broke up with her,” Sam reminds him sternly. “She lost her job at the hospital but she’s in NA now and she’s trying to get her life back together. _And_ she just saved your ass, as I mentioned.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, Dean, I know you don’t want to hear this,” Sam starts, his forehead creased with worry, “but I think you should call this off. Talk to Bobby. He’ll put someone else on the case.”

“No, Sam, you don’t understand.” Sam was just a kid when Cas disappeared. While Dean knows his brother gets why he’s always been so torn up about it—how he’s never let anyone get that close again—he doesn’t think Sam realizes how much losing Cas changed him.

“Why, because I’m not a _real cop_ like you?” Sam’s voice goes sharp and Dean physically flinches away from it. They’ve had this argument before, and Dean has teased Sam for being a lab geek but he never really _meant_ it. He didn’t realize Sam took the jabs so seriously. “I know the forensics lab isn’t your idea of glory, Dean, but I’m not an idiot. Your life is in danger and it’s not worth it.”

“It took me _months_ to get this far, Sam!” Dean winces and clutches his ribs, regretting his heated outburst. Sam’s face softens and Dean goes on more quietly. “If they send someone new in, it’ll be too late for those boys by the time they get this close. When the tournament is over, the boys start training. They might even start selling them for sex. For now, they’re just prisoners. I can get to them before their lives are over.”

“How do you know all that?” Sam asks. Dean suddenly regrets letting Sam in on the case at all. But he needed an outlet, someone to talk to, and Sam’s always been there for him. “I thought they didn’t tell you much about the boys.”

Dean sighs. “They’ve hinted at it. Crowley lets things slip when he drinks, and they want me to train the boys so he’s been opening up more and more.”

“If you won’t get out, you need to at least promise me that you won’t fight in the finals.”

“It’s the only way to get to Cas.”

“Cas is one of the guys who beat you within an inch of your life, Dean!”

Dean closes his eyes, remembering the cold mask of Cas’s face while the other men kicked him. Sam’s right, and he warned Dean about this. He shouldn’t have expected as much from Cas. He breathes slowly through his nose, the sting of betrayal building as hot tears behind his eyes.

“I think those pills are kicking in,” Dean mumbles. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Yeah, all right.” Sam grips Dean’s hand and gingerly helps him to his feet and across their apartment. He eases Dean onto the bed and hovers nearby for a moment, silently asking if Dean needs anything.

Dean says nothing, so Sam leaves him alone. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but the pills do their work. The aches in his body lessen and his eyelids go heavy. 

_“Did you know that the Space Needle is almost six hundred feet high? And it has twenty-five lightning rods on it.”_

_Dean looks away from the rain-streaked windshield. They’re stuck in traffic anyway, he might as well let Cas be his tour guide since they’re sure to be late for the tour they signed up for._

_“And you wanna go up on that thing?” Dean shudders, the thought of those heights setting his nerves on edge._

_Cas grins at him and folds up the pamphlet he was reading. “It’s perfectly safe, Dean.”_

_“I don’t know, man. Maybe we should wait until it stops raining, so we don’t get struck by lightning.”_

_“We’re in Seattle, it’s always raining.”_

_Dean huffs and gestures to the red brake lights in front of them. “And this traffic sucks. Who’s idea was it to come here, anyway?”_

_Cas raises an eyebrow at him. “I recall somebody saying the Space Needle sounded cool.”_

_“I’m sure they have a mini one in Vegas,” Dean says cheekily._

_Cas rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”_

_“I’m adorable.”_

_Cas is grinning again as he curls a hand behind Dean’s neck and pulls him in. They kiss slow and easy, knowing that both the Space Needle and this traffic isn’t going anywhere. Dean smiles against Cas’s mouth._

Dean blinks awake, startled at the memory. He saw Cas so clearly in his dream—young, eager and sweet. He turns towards the window, expecting to see sheets of rain cascading down the glass. But it’s bright and sunny, even though the shades. That was where Cas disappeared. Seattle. Dean has hated rain ever since. 

He groans, his throat dry and raw. He reaches for the cup of water with a straw that Sam left at his bedside, but there are no pills next to it. He swallows down a few gulps of water before settling back against his pillow.

As the last remnants of his dream drift away, Dean registers the sound of Sam’s voice from the living room, seemingly talking on the phone. Dean turns his head towards the open door and listens.

“I don’t care who you are, I’m his _brother_ and I’m telling you to stop calling… Your fucking tournament is the least of my concerns!”

Sam makes a frustrated noise and Dean figures he hung up. Dean wonders who was on the phone as the dull ache in his ribs starts throbbing. 

“Sam,” he calls, but his mouth is dry and his voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sammy!”

Sam comes rushing in, pill bottle in hand. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong, Sammy,” he says dryly. “Help me sit up so I can take more of those happy pills.”

Sam pulls him up slowly then arranges the pillow behind Dean before easing him into a sitting position against it. Dean lets out a hiss of air, the new position not any better for his ribs. Sam hands him two small pills and the water, and Dean chugs them down gratefully.

“Who was that?” Dean asks. Sam’s eyes dart away. “Who was on the phone?”

Sam sighs and looks back to him. “Some guy named Balthazar, said he was calling to check on you. I told him to shove it up his ass.”

“He’s actually a nice guy, Sam,” Dean admits. “Probably the only one in that ring who has my back.”

“If anyone had your back this wouldn’t have happened.”

Dean shrugs and they fall into silence for a few moments. When Sam speaks up again his voice is hesitant.

“He said that Cas cancelled the match.”

Dean’s brow furrows as he processes that. “Why would he do that? It’s supposed to be tonight, if I showed up he’d beat me no problem.”

“Maybe he decided he beat you up enough already.”

“Sam, it wasn’t him,” Dean says, thinking back to lying on the pavement and seeing Cas’s face through the pain. “It was the others, he just…”

“He just gave the orders and then watched it happen,” Sam insists. “Dean, I know you want to trust him, but you have to admit that he’s the reason you’re like this. He could have called them off if he wanted to.”

Dean looks away from Sam, his eyes drawn to the window. The blinds are closed to keep out as much light as possible while Dean slept. He should have known better, he should have listened to Sam. He hasn’t said a single word to Castiel the entire time he’s been undercover. Maybe Dean read too much into the lingering glances that passed between them. Maybe Cas is just different now.

“Get me my phone, will ya Sam?” he asks sadly, defeated. “I’m gonna call Bobby.”

“Yeah, okay, Dean.” Sam places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes once before leaving the room.

Dean tells Bobby everything that happened, every little detail of the past few weeks. Lieutenant Singer sounds relieved to hear from him, and Dean realizes that Sam must have told him about the beating. Sam should be at work now, after all. He’s hovering by the doorway while Bobby talks, and Dean grants him a weak smile. He’s so grateful for his brother that he doesn’t think he could put it into words. 

Dean and Bobby agree that Dean’s gone as far as he can, that he’s gathered enough information over the months he’s been undercover for them to go on. Bobby’s going to put together a task force to go into the warehouse; if they can arrest even one of the higher-ups in the operation, they can hopefully get the boys’ whereabouts out of him. He tells Dean sternly to not even think about coming along. Dean sighs into the phone.

“I mean it, boy.” Bobby’s voice softens into the tone of a concerned friend, not the gruff orders of a superior. “Don’t you go disappearin’ on me again, ya hear?”

“Yeah, I promise,” Dean tells him. “Not like I’d be much use anyway.”

“We’ll find those boys, Dean,” Bobby assures him. “I’ll let you know when the warrant goes through.”

He hangs up and looks to Sam. Dean shakes his head.

“It’s over.”


	4. Part Four

PART FOUR

A few days later, when Dean is well enough, he and Sam go back to the station. Dean walks gingerly to keep the pain in his ribs from flaring up, and the bruises on his face have turned a mottled yellow-black. The warrant came through that morning, and it took every favor that Bobby and Sergeant Mills could call in to get a judge to sign off on Dean’s word-of-mouth evidence. Jody gives him a smile and a soft pat on the arm—Dean is grateful for her work but he can’t help feeling like he let everyone down. He couldn’t have foreseen that he’d be put out of commission like this, and nobody blames him for it. Still, he wished he could have seen it through to the end. 

In the conference room, Dean debriefs the task force on the operation, going over the major players and the layout of the warehouse. With the tournament called off, Dean can’t guarantee who will be there and when. He knows Crowley has a day job, and he’s sure that Zachariah uses some kind of cover, so they plan to hit the warehouse late that night.

When the meeting is over, Dean pulls Bobby and Jody aside, insisting that he be allowed in the surveillance van while the team goes in.

“Have you seen yourself lately, kid?” Jody asks him, sounding very much like a mother hen. “There’s no way you’re ready to be back out on the field.”

“It’s just the van, Mills,” he pleads. “I can talk everyone through it. No one knows that place like I do.”

“Absolutely not,” Bobby cuts in sternly. “You’ve done your job, now let us do ours.”

“I’m not paralyzed, here. I may not be much use in a fight, but I can help. You need me, Bobby.”

Bobby looks over to Jody, who shrugs. “He’s got a point,” Jody says. “If things go badly, it’d be good to have him plugged in.”

“This is _my_ case,” Dean insists. “Please, don’t box me out.”

Bobby relents under Jody’s logic and Dean’s pleading eyes. “Fine. But you listen to me, boy.” He points a stern finger in Dean’s face. “You stay in that van. No matter what happens. You’re strictly an advisor. Got it?”

“Yessir,” Dean says with a grin.

“And once this case is closed, you’re taking sick leave. That ain’t a suggestion.”

Bobby storms out before any of them can say more. Dean winks at Jody, who rolls her eyes at him. He stops by Sam’s lab on the way out, where Charlie is complaining about all the works she’s had to do to cover him while he played nursemaid for Dean. Dean flashes her a smile, but she just scowls at him. He makes a mental note to bring her coffee the next time he’s in the office. He’s always liked Charlie, and while she knows Sam better, Dean considers her a friend.

Sam gives Dean a lecture about when to take his pain pills, but Dean brushes off his concern and leaves. He thinks about stopping for lunch on the way home, but finds that he doesn’t have much of an appetite. Maybe it’s the medication, or the sinking feeling in his stomach about leaving his case to his colleagues.

He’s walking down the hallway to his apartment when he pauses, resting a hand on the gun that sits at his hip. There’s someone sitting against the wall facing his apartment door, head bent down over his knees and a hood pulled up to obscure his face. Dean takes a step forward, fingers itching to pull the gun.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The intruder picks his head up and turns to look at him. Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Cas looks small in that hoodie, his face pale against the dark hood pulled tight around it. 

“Dean,” he says, voice breaking on the word. It tugs at Dean’s heart but he tries to squash it down, to let his anger and hurt take over.

He makes himself move, walking straight to his door and around Cas.

“Dean, I can explain.”

“I don’t wanna hear a thing you have to say.” 

Dean slams the door in his face, then locks it with the chain and leans against it. He presses his forehead against the door and squeezes his eyes shut. Cas is the last person he expected to see. Dean can’t help it, he’s curious about what Cas is doing here, what he would say. But he remembers the cold look in his eyes as the others beat him senseless in the alley, and his stomach turns. It’s quiet for a time, but Dean knows Cas is still there, on the other side of the door. Dean presses his ear against the wood when Cas starts pleading.

“Dean, let me in. Dean, _please_.”

Dean opens his eyes and takes a few steadying breaths, trying to gather himself. “Why should I?” he finally calls out.

“I can explain,” Cas says again. “Please, just let me explain.”

The desperation in Cas’s voice makes Dean’s resolve falter. He pulls away from the door to look through the peek hole. He can just make out the top of Cas’s head, his forehead pressed against the door, palms up flat before him.

“Please, Dean.”

Dean exhales deep before slowly sliding the chain off the door. When he opens it, Cas looks up at him, surprised.

“Get inside, before someone sees you,” Dean says gruffly, and Cas follows him into the apartment. “What are you doing here?”

Dean turns his back on him and goes to sit on the couch. Cas stands there awkwardly in front of him, fingers fidgeting, folding over and over each other. Dean notices the Band-Aids on Cas’s knuckles, stained dark red and dirty.

“I snuck away,” Cas says quietly. “I hoped I would find you here.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“Balthazar tracked your phone.” Cas’s voice is guilty.

Dean is suddenly very glad that Sam is at work. If they know where he lives, Dean needs to keep Sam away. Maybe he can stay at Charlie’s or Jody’s until this mess is over.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, all the fight gone out of him. “Cas, what happened to you?”

“I…” Cas hesitates, eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but at Dean. “They took me, locked me away and made me fight, made me…”

Cas trails off. Dean watches him closely. He looks so different now than he did on the street the other night—frail and hopeless and desperate. All that cold anger is gone; this is Cas now, not Jimmy. Dean is starting to realize that there’s a difference between the two. 

Dean wants to reach out to him, wants to make it better, but the memory of Cas’s betrayal is still too fresh. He thinks if he can keep Cas talking, maybe he can find out the location of the missing boys, close this case, and move on.

But then Cas finally looks at him, eyes huge and glassy and pleading. Dean swallows away the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know who this person is. It’s not Jimmy, the leader of a gang of fighters. And it’s not the Castiel that Dean used to know. Cas has fractured somewhere along the way, and Dean doesn’t know if those pieces can ever be reconciled. 

“Come here, Cas,” he says softly. “Sit down.”

Cas does so slowly, still hesitating as if Dean might lash out and hit him at any moment.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Cas finally says. “But the others, they were furious. They would have killed us both if I tried to stop them.”

“Okay, Cas,” Dean sighs. “I get that. But I need you to tell me something, this is really important… Where are the other boys, the ones that were taken?”

“Why do you need to know that?” 

Dean exhales through his nose and presses his lips together in a firm line. He’s trying to be sensitive, to understand why Cas is here—but there’s this nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him to get information from him. The case, he has to close this damned case so they can figure each other out again. 

“Because, Cas, I’m a cop. I’ve been undercover, looking for these boys. Looking for you.”

Cas grants him a tiny smile. “A cop? I figured you were just lying about your name…” Cas trails off, deep in thought for a few moments. “Remember when you wanted to be a teacher?”

“Yeah, Cas. I remember.” The memories of who he used to be—who they both used to be—are painful. Dean forces them away. “Cas, I need you to help me. We can let those boys go home, we can stop this from happening to more people.”

Cas’s eyes slide away, looking out the window where the afternoon sun shines through. “This is my life, Dean. It’s the only life I know.”

“I know, and I hate that,” Dean admits. “But it doesn’t have to be that way, Cas.” 

Cas shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I don’t know how else to _be_. I don’t know how to have a normal life, how to hold down a job or live on my own. All I know is how to make people pay for me.”

“That’s not a life, Cas.” Dean speaks very quietly, not wanting to upset him. “I can get you out. I can get all those boys out, back to their families.”

Cas looks back to him, then. “How are my parents? Do they think I’m dead?”

Dean exhales through his nose and places his hand over Cas’s, fingers resting lightly on his bandaged knuckles. “Cas, I’m sorry. They died in a car crash, a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Cas goes quiet, and Dean expects him to break down, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, still as a statue, his face going passive. He looks down at their hands, one thumb coming up to grip at Dean’s finger.

“Cas, we can end this,” Dean says softly. “You can come home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

“Yeah, you do.” Cas looks up at that, and Dean continues before he loses his nerve. “With me and Sammy. That’s where you belong, Cas.”

“I don’t know how to love people, only how to hurt them.”

“You used to know.” Dean moves his thumb slowly across the back of Cas’s hand. “I think you still do, somewhere.” 

Cas’s eyes roam across Dean’s face, taking him in, studying him. He disentangles their fingers and brushes a thumb lightly across his bruised cheek. He is exceedingly gentle, and Dean remembers this. He remembers how Cas used to kiss him for no reason at all, how Cas’s hands were always soft and warm against his skin. He remembers their first time—Sam was asleep downstairs and Cas climbed in through Dean’s bedroom window—remembers how they took it slow, how they pushed against each other with near-silent gasps.

Cas’s eyes were just as blue then as they are now. Dean can’t look away, Cas holds him there with just his gaze and the brush of his thumb. 

“I missed you,” Dean murmurs. He wants to gather Cas up and keep him close, never let him go again.

“I thought about you,” Cas tells him, his gaze traveling down Dean’s arm. His thumb swipes across the numbers tattooed inside Dean’s arm with a knowing smile. “I wanted to ask about you, to have someone check on you. But I didn’t know what they might do to you, if they would take you, or… So I never mentioned you, not once.”

Dean smiles, just a little. “You’re the reason I became a cop. Those assholes in Seattle barely did shit to find you. I swear I could have burned that place to the ground.”

“Choosing a career over pyromania was probably a good move.”

It surprises a laugh out of Dean. Cas’s humor was always on the dry side, and Dean always loved it. It gives him hope that the boy he once knew and loved could still be in there, somewhere. They’ve both been damaged, he knows that, but he has to believe that together they might be okay.

“I need your help Cas,” he says. “Whatever’s going on between us, we can figure it out. I want you out of there, I want you safe and whole, but I can’t do that without you.”

“You don’t know how much you’re asking of me, Dean.”

Dean sighs. “You’re right. I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through. But we’re out of time here, Cas. If we don’t move quickly, it’ll be too late for those kidnapped boys. They’ll end up…”

“Like me,” Cas finishes for him. “They’ll end up like me.”

“That’s not what I…” Dean hesitates; he didn’t exactly mean it that way, but they both know it’s true.

“It’s okay,” Cas goes on. “I don’t want that, either. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”

“So will you help me?”

Cas takes a short breath and lets it out through his nose before speaking. “Yes, Dean, I’ll help you,” he says finally. “But you might not like opening up your home to something broken like me.”

“We’re all broken,” Dean tells him. “And I don’t care, I just want you back with me. We’ll deal with it.”

Cas nods, a tear slipping down his cheek. Dean wipes it away with his thumb and leans in, then pauses a breath away from Cas. Part of him thinks that this is a bad idea, that there’s so much they need to fix between them. But the rest of him _needs_ Cas, and Dean’s always prided himself on his bad ideas.

Cas is the one who closes the space between them and presses their mouths together. It’s soft and timid, just a brush of lips, but to Dean it feels like salvation, like coming home. He brushes his thumb across Cas’s jaw, sliding his hand into his hair. Cas leans into him, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. Dean’s bottom lip is split from the fight, and Cas pulls it gently into his mouth and sucks. His tongue is rough along the scabbed skin and Dean groans in the back of his throat. He pushes them back on the couch, laying across Cas’s body and then—

“Dean, are you okay?”

Dean grits his teeth and nods, but the pain in his chest is sharp and unrelenting. He shouldn’t have pushed, he shouldn’t have thought he could do this while he’s still so bruised.

“Can I get you something?”

Dean’s eyes are closed tight against the pain as Cas repositions them so Dean is sitting up. He tells Cas where Sam put the pills, and in an instant Cas is back with the bottle and a glass of water. Dean swallows them and chugs the water, then turns to Cas.

“You got a smoke?” he asks. “My pack and my lighter are still in that alley somewhere.”

Cas nods, but Dean can tell that the beating is an unwelcome subject. Cas doesn’t talk about it, just puts a cigarette in his mouth, lights it, and takes a pull before handing it to Dean. Dean smokes slowly, his drags long and deep in the silence. He passes it off to Cas.

While Cas smokes, Dean thinks about tonight’s operation. With the tournament off, the task force won’t find much. Some circumstantial evidence, maybe Crowley if he’s there with his boys. Dean knows the Master of Ceremonies won’t turn snitch no matter how much they interrogate him.

When Cas passes him the cigarette, Dean takes a long pull before telling Cas his plan. 

“I think we should finish the tournament.”

Cas turns to him with a frown. “You can’t fight like this, Dean. And I don’t want to fight you. I won’t.”

“The police are storming the place tonight, but they won’t find much,” Dean goes on. “The fight will bring everyone back in, and we can take them down.”

“So we’re bait.” Cas hums to himself and plucks the cigarette from Dean’s fingers. “I know where they keep the boys. Why don’t we just send your policemen there instead? Then no one needs to get hurt.”

“We’ll send a unit there to get the boys, but we need to take the whole operation down or it’ll just start up again somewhere else.”

“You need Zachariah.”

“Can we get him there, Cas?”

Cas nods. “He wouldn’t miss the finals. But what about you?”

“They’ll lock us in the cage and we’ll fake it.” Dean grins. “You know how to pull your punches, right?”

“This is risky, Dean. We’ll need inside help.”

“Call Balthazar,” Dean says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call my guys and tell them the change in plans.”

Cas sighs and does as he’s told. As Dean waits for Bobby to pick up he braces himself for the tongue-lashing he’s sure to get from his Lieutenant.

\--

The station has been abuzz with activity since Dean returned with Cas in tow. Henriksen has taken over the conference room with his task force and SWAT members, already wearing bulletproof vests and serious faces. Upon seeing Cas for the first time, Dean wasn’t sure if Sam was going to hug him or punch him in the face. Dean quickly explained their plan, Cas apologized again for the incident in the alley, and eventually Sam came around. He patted Cas on the shoulder awkwardly before retreating to his lab.

Dean left Cas in the care of Jody while he and Bobby talked to Balthazar in the interrogation room. 

“I knew there was something going on with you, Jensen.” Balthazar holds up a hand and corrects himself. “Sorry, what’s your real name again? Dean?”

“It’s Detective Winchester to you,” Bobby says gruffly.

Dean shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Are you in, or out?”

“Remind me again how I’m protected?” Balthazar quirks an eyebrow in Bobby’s direction.

“During the fight itself, you’ll be wearing a vest and have an agent with eyes on you at all times,” Bobby told him. “Afterwards, in return for your cooperation in taking down Zachariah and his associates, you’ll be free of all charges. No jail time. You might have to testify in court.”

“And I assume you’ll protect me then, too?” Balthazar smirks at Dean. “Because I’m sure one of the many lovely people I work with would find a way to get to me. Nothing against your policeforce, mate.”

“We’ll keep an eye on ya,” Bobby says. “Now answer the man. You in, or out?”

Balthazar sighs dramatically before holding both hands palms up in defeat. “I’m in. But for the record, I’m not doing this for you lot. I’m doing it for Jimmy.”

Dean nods and stands up from the table. On the way to the station, Cas had told him about how Balthazar looked out for him during his years in the ring. While he wasn’t a fighter, Balthazar became a mentor of sorts to Cas, giving him advice on how to survive in that cutthroat world. He helped Cas when he wanted to stop selling his body, when he caught the flu and was too sick to fight, when he was homesick. Dean was glad to call him in to broker a deal, to give him immunity.

Dean finds Cas at Jody’s desk, sitting across from her and clutching a cup of coffee. He drops a hand onto Cas’s shoulder. “You ready?”

Cas looks up at him and nods. Jody _tsks_ at them.

“You kids are crazy for doing this,” she says, pushing her chair back and standing. She clips her gun to her belt and throws her badge around her neck. “Smart, but crazy.”

“See you in there,” Dean says, and he and Cas leave her behind with the rest of the team. Sam is waiting for Dean at the door.

“I’ll be here all night,” Sam tells him. Dean nods once before Sam throws his arms around him. “Be careful.”

“I will, Sammy. Promise.”


	5. Part Five

PART FIVE

The warehouse is flooded with people. Whatever Balthazar did, it got everyone and then some there for the fight. Dean’s alone in the makeshift locker room taping his hands up when Balthazar comes in.

“How are the ribs?”

Dean smirks. “They’ve been better.” He had Sam rewrap his bandages, pulling them tight around Dean’s chest. Sam frowned all the while, griping about Dean’s horrible ideas and how forensics geeks never get to do anything. Dean knows his brother would rather be there to watch his back, than stuck in the station waiting for news.

“Here,” Balthazar says, handing Dean a key. It’s a copy of the key to the cage, in case Dean and Cas need to get out. The bookie is wired with a microphone and earpiece plugged into the task force.

“Thanks for your help, Balth. Really.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says grimly. “Just remember to make it look convincing until your boys show up.”

Dean wraps the key in the tape around his wrist before Balthazar walks him out to the main floor. Crowley is in the cage with a microphone, pumping up the crowd. Cas stands next to him, waiting to be locked in. Dean prays to whatever might be listening that this works. He finds that he cares less about getting Zachariah into custody, as long as the abducted boys are freed. The second task force is on its way to the house-turned-prison, but Dean won’t know what state the boys are in until later.

If he survives the night. 

Crowley finally exits the cage, gesturing for Dean and Cas to take their places. They face each other as the cage door clangs shut. The cheering of the crowd is deafening, but Dean tries to block it out. He and Cas have a loose plan for their fake fight, involving a lot of swings-and-misses and time spent on the floor. Dean doesn’t think he’ll have to fake the pain too much.

Dean loses track of time as they dance around each other, forgetting to pay attention to when his team is supposed to come in. They’re waiting for a signal from Balthazar. Dean won’t know when exactly that will be. The crowd grows restless, and Dean spots Gabriel and his brothers at the front, goading Jimmy to destroy him.

Dean takes a solid punch to the jaw and staggers back into the cage wall. Cas kills time by gloating, throwing his arms into the air and getting the crowd worked up. Watching him, Dean can tell that he knows what he’s doing, that Cas has done this many times before. Dean’s bouncing on the balls of his feet when Cas turns back to him. Cas drops into a defensive crouch and they block and parry each other.

Dean ends up face down on the floor from a punch that could have been much harder, he knows, but it was still enough to leave him gasping in pain. Cas hovers above him, giving Dean time to catch his breath, when the SWAT team finally arrives.

The crowd scatters as Henriksen and his team swarm the place in full gear, their guns poised and ready. Gabriel and the other fighters immediately engage them, using chairs and their bare hands against the armored officers. Dean sees Gabriel go down, but he doesn’t know if he’s dead or just stunned.

Cas pulls Dean to his feet as they watch it unfold. Dean curls one arm around his chest as his ribs throb, and that’s when he spots Zachariah heading up the stairs, fighting against the panicked crowd. Dean rips at the tape on his wrist to pull out the key.

“Stay here!” he yells to Cas before maneuvering his arm through the cage bars to unlock the door. 

“Like hell,” Cas says, just a step behind him. Henriksen calls Dean’s name from nearby and passes him a handgun. Dean laments that he doesn’t have time to strap on a vest, but pushes through the crowd and sprints up the stairs with Cas on his heels.

They find Zachariah on the roof, pointing a gun at Balthazar. 

“LAPD, drop the weapon!” Dean yells, bringing his gun up with two hands. 

“I always thought you were more than met the eye, Jensen,” Zachariah drawls, keeping his gun trained on Balthazar. “But a cop, this whole time? That’s an award-winning performance. You should have been an actor.”

“Let him go,” Dean says calmly, circling around. 

“And what, you’ll call off your SWAT buddies?” Zachariah is smirking and his gun is steady in his hands. He backs Balthazar towards the edge of the roof and the bookie looks from his captor to Dean with fear in his eyes.

Dean takes a step forward. “It’s over, Zach. You’ve lost.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over.” 

Zachariah turns swiftly to point his gun at Cas, and Dean squeezes the trigger. He’s hit in the shoulder but Zachariah keeps hold of his gun. Cas charges at him, but before he can get there Zachariah pulls a knife from his pocket. In the blink of an eye, Balthazar lunges into the path of the knife, pushing Cas out of the way. Zachariah twists the knife into Balthazar’s gut, then lets him drop to the ground. He slashes at Cas, who ducks easily and grabs onto Zachariah’s wrist, bending it so he drops the gun. Dean’s own gun is trained on them but he doesn’t dare shoot. They’re moving too fast and he’s afraid he’ll hit Cas. 

The knife is still in Zachariah’s hand, poised to slash down. Cas holds Zachariah’s fist in his hand, above their heads, keeping him at bay. Zachariah is much bigger than Cas, and his weight bares down on him, pushing Cas to one knee

“I thought I taught you better than this, boy,” Zachariah sneers.

“I’m a slow learner.” 

Cas head-butts the bigger man and Zachariah stumbles backwards, stunned. Cas lunges for the gun, coming up in a crouch. Zachariah charges at him with the knife, and with Cas on the ground Dean finally has a clear shot. He lets loose two bullets into Zachariah’s chest and Cas fires off his own. Zachariah falls to the ground, littered with bullets. Dean and Cas both stay where they are, frozen.

Dean comes up behind Cas to squeeze his shoulder. Cas is gazing down at Zachariah’s lifeless form. Dean expects to see anger or maybe sadness there, but Cas’s face has gone to stone again.

“Are you all right?” Dean asks gently.

Cas stands up, drops the gun, and turns to him. “Yes,” is all he says before striding to Balthazar. He presses his hands against the wound and murmurs something that Dean can’t hear. 

Dean grabs the microphone hidden in Balthazar’s lapel pocket and calls for help. 

“They’ll be here soon,” he assures Cas. 

Cas’s eyes don’t leave Balthazar for a moment.

\--

Back at the station, Dean sits with Cas and Sam in the conference room, a mug of coffee in his hand that he hasn’t touched. Charlie had dropped it off to him with a wink, saying that he owed her two now. Through the window they see Bobby, Jody, and Henriksen deep in conversation. Dean heard that the warehouse turned into a bloodbath. The fighters refused to go down without a fight, but were easily overpowered by the SWAT team. Crowley managed to get away; there are cars out patrolling the streets for him.

Balthazar is still in surgery at the hospital. Cas hasn’t said a word since the rooftop. Dean watches him from the corner of his eye and notices how Cas has gone still, no longer fidgeting like he had in Dean’s apartment.

Not long later, the five kidnapped boys reunite with their families. It’s a tearful display, but the boys are all healthy even if they’re shaken up. Dean turns to Cas then and sees his calm façade break, just a bit.

“Do you think you could take me to visit my parents’ graves?” Cas asks, his voice a rough whisper. “When all this is over.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean says.

“We’ve visited them a few times without you, over the years,” Sam puts in.

“I don’t remember what it’s like to have a family,” Cas continues, fighting back tears. “What it’s like to be loved and not just admired or feared.”

“We’re not exactly the poster kids for normal families, Cas,” Dean says with a soft smile. “But we get by. And there’s plenty of room for you.”

“We should get a house,” Sam announces. “Maybe a backyard, and a dog.”

Dean chuckles to himself and Cas beams up at Sam. “Thank you,” he says, his voice breaking on the words. “Both of you. I’ll find a way to repay you.”

“Not necessary, Cas,” Dean insists, curling their fingers together despite Sam’s knowing grin. “Although, I will accept payment in pie and free smokes.”

“Oh no, you’re quitting if we get a house,” Sam says, and that’s what does it. Cas laughs, the sound bubbling up from his chest and surprising him. He closes his mouth for a moment, looks to each of them in turn.

Then the three of them are laughing together, ignoring the stinkeye they’re getting from Bobby. Dean squeezes Cas’s hand and lets himself feel happy and whole.

His little family may be unconventional, but it’s _his_ , and nothing’s going to take it away from him again.


	6. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Dean pulls up to their little green house more tired than he should be from his first day back at work. Bobby stuck him at a desk until he gets back into the swing of things, so Dean spent most of his day doing paperwork and answering calls. His ribs are no longer sore, all his cuts and bruises have healed, yet still he feels tired. He flops down onto the couch with his shoes and jacket still on.

“Tough day?” Cas asks.

Dean cracks open one eye. “Paperwork is exhausting.”

Cas sits on the floor facing Dean, his legs pulled up under him. “You’ll be back in the action soon enough.”

Dean manages a small smile. “Soon enough. What did you do today?”

Dean’s first day back at work meant it was also Cas’s first day alone in the house. Dean knows his routine by now—what time Cas got up, what he had for breakfast, how long he was with his therapist. The doctors all said that routine is important, so Dean and Sam both adjusted to it. Dean doesn’t expect Cas to tell him all these details.

“I got a fish.” Cas turns and points into the kitchen. Dean cranes his neck to peer through the doorway and catches a glimpse of a feathery blue _something_ swimming around in a small bowl.

“Did you name him?”

“Not yet. Anna said that a pet would be a good idea, so I have something to talk to during the day. I thought you would prefer this to a kitten.”

“Good choice.” Dean smiles tiredly. He doesn’t mind the new addition—giving Cas something low-maintenance to feed and take care of will be a good thing. He trusts Anna’s judgment. They met her through Ruby, who claims Anna is the best therapist in the city and is the only reason she’s stayed clean. Dean learned to appreciate Ruby’s help, because the therapy seems to be working.

“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks into the quiet.

“Working late,” Dean mumbles, because he’s tired and doesn’t feel like talking.

When Cas just nods and looks down, Dean feels guilty. He’s supposed to be opening up, too. Sam convinced him to make his own appointments with Anna, to work out all the things that he’s been holding inside for so long. He goes once a week, while Cas still goes twice. He hopes someday they’ll both be able to cut back.

Dean makes himself sit up on the couch, his knees level with Cas’s eyes. “I’m just tired,” he says. Then he takes a moment, thinks about what he means, and says that instead. “It’s weird, being back at work. I kept wanting to call and check on you. Bobby and Jody are babying me, and I just want to get out there and do some real _work_ again.”

“Sam checked on me.” Dean raises an eyebrow, and Cas continues. “He told me you were whining all day.”

“I wasn’t whining,” he insists, putting a little whine into his voice just to make Cas smile.

It works, and it’s a welcome sight. Though it’s a small smile, Cas’s whole face changes with it. His eyes soften and the worry lines in his forehead go smooth. Dean traces the curve of Cas’s cheek with the pad of his thumb before standing up. He offers his hand to Cas, pulling him up. They go quietly into Dean’s bedroom.

Cas has his own room; they thought it would be best to give each other some space. But Cas is prone to nightmares and Dean often can’t fall asleep, so most nights one of them creeps into the other’s room and they fall asleep together. 

They climb on top of the covers and lay facing each other. Dean leans in first. They kiss slowly, lazily. Dean’s tongue darts out to lick at Cas’s bottom lip, and Cas slides his hand into Dean’s hair. Sometimes this is all they do, all they can handle. Cas is still haunted by memories of his days being sold, and Dean is afraid to push that. Some nights Cas can’t even be touched.

But other nights he lets Dean slide his hands over him. Dean always takes it slow and gentle, murmuring sweet things against Cas’s skin. Today Cas stops him at kissing, placing a hand on Dean’s hip to keep a little bit of space between them. Dean knows the signs, and he pulls back.

“Balthazar’s coming over for dinner tomorrow,” Cas says, turning onto his back and closing his eyes. “Don’t forget.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Dean watches Cas for a few long moments, comfortable in the stillness and silence. The setting sun casts the room in a warm glow, and Dean feels his eyes slide shut.

When Sam gets home, the two of them are curled around each other, sleeping peacefully. He smiles to himself and leaves their door open a crack.


End file.
